Sam I'm Thankful For
by Lennelle
Summary: A real Thanksgiving. Sam is stressed. John can't cook. Dean keeps things together. Part of the Sam I Am 'verse.


Hey! So I really miss Sam I Am (don't worry the sequel is coming!) and I wanted to write a one-shot for this 'verse. I know I'm a little late for Thanksgiving but it went on longer than intended. Also, I don't celebrate Thanksgiving but I'm guessing this is kind of what happens?

Anyway, this is set a few months after the final chapter of Sam I Am, meaning that they defeated the Institution about a year earlier.

If you haven't read Sam I Am then this won't make much sense so I suggest you read that first.

* * *

A real Thanksgiving. A turkey-potatoes-and-gravy type of Thanksgiving, not the usual eat-a-bucket-of-crispy-while-Dad-passes-out-on-the-couch type of Thanksgiving. Dean would have been lying if he'd said it was no big deal.

Every holiday had become Hallmark for the Winchesters, because damn it if Dean and John weren't going to make sure Sam had the most normal life he could get.

Sam had had a Thanksgiving a year ago, only a few months after defeating the Institution, nothing went to plan, Sam hadn't been ready. By the time Christmas came they'd finally moved into a real house, a small one in a small town with a yard and a front door and carpets, and the house hadn't been exactly homey. They'd spent all their money on the deposit so they didn't even have gifts.

Dean had been determined that Sam would get a real Christmas for once in his life, but things hadn't panned out that way when they ate Chinese food in an empty room with no heating.

Sam's 18th Birthday had been a proper celebration, one with cake and friends and a freaking puppy. A freaking puppy who had ruined July 4th by being frightened of fireworks, thanks a lot, Clem.

But things had changed; their house was almost a home, Sam was getting better, and Clem had grown. That dog, Dean hated to admit that he was a little jealous of that dog. The girl was so damn smart, she had the same Sammy senses that Dean did, sometimes she even picked up on them faster than him. She was _always_ with Sam, she looked after him as much as Sam took care of her, and Dean could tell the dog took her job seriously.

So, Dean had time of work for the holidays; a mechanic by day and a shelf stacker at the 24/7 supermarket by night. Hunting took a backseat. There were other hunters out there, after all. John had found it a little harder to let go, taking on only a part-time job at the same garage Dean worked at. Dean saw it as a positive; at least someone would be around more often to keep an eye on Sam while Dean was working.

And Sam. Sam was finishing high school at community college, trying to learn to be a normal person again. Things were different, but things were working in their own weird way.

Speaking of weird, John Winchester was _cooking_. Even weirder; Dean was _decorating_. He'd gotten some crappy paper turkeys from the clearing shelf at the market for free, rewards for hard work, so said his manager, thanks Paul. Dean was hanging them up around their house, which wasn't too hard since it was one floor, with an open-plan dining room/living room/kitchen.

John was frowning at a recipe, given to him by the old lady down the street, and glanced between the turkey and the oven. Dean had suggest using pre-prepared food, all he'd have to do was stick it in the oven and watch the game until it was done, but no, John Winchester would prepare his dead bird with his own two hands.

A plan which seemed to be going badly, but Dad would never admit it. Later, he might pretend to go make a call or something but really he would run down the street to ask the old lady what to do.

Dean just carried on pinning paper turkeys to the wall as he watched his dad silently suffer. It served him right for refusing any help, _damn it Dean I think I can peel a few potatoes_. As time ticked by and John continued to treat the turkey like he was hunting it, Dean realised that it was more likely they'd be serving their guests Chinese takeout. At least this time they had a table.

Dean had had enough. "Dad, just go ask her what to do," he ordered, "No one cares if you can't cook a damn turkey by yourself."

"I can cook a turkey," John snapped, seeming genuinely offended, "This isn't my first rodeo."

"Well, maybe you haven't been on the bull in a while," Dean pointed out, "Hey, what's more important? Saving your pride or saving us all from salmonella?"

John sighed heavily and dropped the knife he was using to hack up some carrots. "I'll be right back," he mumbled, heading for the door.

"Tell Eileen I say hi!" Dean yelled after him, smirking to himself as he secured the final turkey in place. He hopped of his stool and glanced around the room. It was appropriately orange. John had made a mess of the kitchen, which itched at Dean's inner homemaker so he cleared away the empty plastic bags and wrappers along with vegetable peels.

He was partway through scanning Eileen's instructions on how to cook a turkey, which didn't look too difficult to Dean, when the phone rang.

"Hello, you're speaking to Dean Winchester, the main breadwinner of this crap hole," he chirped in his best suburban voice.

"And you're speaking to the man whose fully responsible for the pie making it to your place in one piece."

"Hey, Bobby," Dean greeted, "My favourite person."

"Family life has really made you more of an asshole, huh?" Bobby scoffed on the other end, "I'm calling to tell you that Caleb can't make it, he's waist deep in a swamp monster hunt."

"What's a swamp monster?"

"He'll tell you when he finds out," Bobby answered, "I'm about four hours out so I'll make it to you right before dinner. I think Jo, Ash and Ellen are a little closer than me."

Dean glanced over at the barely-prepared dinner. "I think you'll be fine on time."

"Good. Anyway, how have you been?" Bobby asked.

"Busy. Tired. Working," Dean drawled, "But it's fine, keeps me occupied."

"Well, I'm proud of you," Bobby told him, "Really, you've turned your life around for your brother."

"If you keep talking like that you'll grow lady parts," Dean chided, "And no offence, Roberta, but I don't know if you could pull it off."

"Shut up," Bobby snapped, but Dean definitely heard a smile in there, "I'll see you soon, Idjit."

The line cut off and Dean hooked the phone back onto the wall. He turned the oven on, _the instructions said to pre-heat the oven, Dad,_ and headed down the hallway to the door on the end. He knocked to the melody of Back in Black.

"What?!" came the irritated voice inside.

Dean pushed the door open. Sam's room was impeccably neat; he'd once tried to encourage a little messiness. He'd dropped one perfectly folded sweatshirt onto the floor without closing the drawer, Sam had reacted… well, it had been a bad idea. After he'd managed to calm Sam down and convinced him that everything was back in place as it had been, he hadn't bothered Sam's room again.

No one was to go in Sam's room unless Sam gave permission, the door or the window was always kept open, everything was kept in its place and Sam always had a clock in his sight at all times. Honestly, Dean didn't mind his brother's quirks (obsessions) as long as he felt comfortable.

At that moment, Sam was at his desk, hunched down with his legs brought up, chin resting on his knees. The window was open despite the cold, and Sam was wearing a thick jumper and a pair of gloves.

"Dude, it's freezing in here," Dean exclaimed, closing the door behind himself.

"I don't mind it," Sam shrugged, not turning around. Dean peeked over Sam's shoulder to find a neat pile of books and carefully arranged pens.

"You're doing homework?" Dean snorted, "It's Thanksgiving, all you're supposed to do is eat more than your own bodyweight in turkey and pie."

"What if I want to do homework?" Sam asked, glancing at Dean over his shoulder, "What if I'm _thankful_ for homework?"

"1) You're a smartass, and 2) you're weird," Dean told him. Sam rolled his eyes and turned back around.

"I think weird is an understatement for me," Sam said, though he sounded amused.

"We're all weird, yeah yeah," Dean drawled, "We're the Weirdchesters. Why don't you stop being a geek and come watch TV or something?"

"I'm nearly done," Sam answered distractedly, he turned back to his work. A whine startled Dean, Clem was curled up under Sam's desk, looking just as bored as Dean was.

"Clem!" Dean called, the dog perked up and wagged her tail, "Hey, girl, wanna ditch this loser in his nerd cave and come hang with me?"

Clem was intrigued, her tail was wagging and her ears were pricked up, but Sam always came first. She wouldn't budge unless Sam did.

"Okay, Clem, I see how it is," Dean sighed, mock-offended, "But who am I supposed to go on a walk with now? And I was going to take the tennis ball with me… but no one wants to come. Darn."

Clem whined again, looking up at Sam, flashing the dewy-eyed look better than Sam ever could. Sam looked down and scratched behind her ears, dropping his pen.

"Okay," he said, getting to his feet, "Let's give our feet something to do."

Clem was already trotting out of the room, when they got to the hallway she was waiting by the front door with her ball between her teeth. Sam securely closed his door and shrugged on his coat, grabbing the leash from the hook on the wall. He latched it onto Clem's collar and glanced over to the kitchen.

"Where's dad?" he asked as he opened the door.

"Went to ask Eileen how to cook a turkey," Dean smirked, "Even though she gave him instructions. I bet he's fighting off her invitations to stay for dinner as we speak."

Sam laughed a little and set out onto the street, Clementine led the way. Dean jogged a little to catch up with Sam's mile-long legs that didn't seem to stop and wait for him.

"What homework are you doing?" he asked.

"History project," Sam answered, "We have to make a presentation."

"Oh?" Dean prompted. He knew Sam didn't like having much attention on him, which was extra hard for him since he'd had a bad episode in public over the summer so now everyone knew _that poor Winchester boy has mental issues_. They always muttered _mental_ like it was a curse word, even worse was that they had been talking to Sam like he was five years old ever since.

Poor idiots had no idea how advanced Sam was, mentally and physically.

"I don't really want to do it," Sam mumbled, head down, "But it's part of my grade so I have to get over it… under, over…"

His shoulder ticked a little.

Sam was better than he was, with the help of meds taken like clockwork and weekly therapy, but he was still finding things hard. His thoughts wandered a lot and he'd not make much sense to people who didn't know him, he got twitches and ticks, had routines that he carried out every day. Those were everyday things, when Sam was especially bad he'd lose touch with reality.

That hadn't happened since the summer when he'd barely even known Dean was there, when he'd thought he was trapped again, when he'd tried to escape and Dean had found freezing, soaked and surrounded by a crowd on the main road in the middle of a rain storm.

"Anything that'll make it easier?" Dean asked. Sam must have been pretty stressed out, which Dean should have noticed earlier since the kid had been hiding away in his room all day, and he was counting his steps, avoiding the cracks in the pavement, clutching the leash like it might get ripped away any second.

"Hey, hey, hey," Dean said softly, gently pulling Sam to a stop, "Look at me."

Sam did.

"You're okay, remember?" Dean asked. Sam nodded. "Tell me what's going on."

"I-I don't want to talk in front of them," Sam stuttered, "They all know. Normally, I sit at the back and they don't look at me, but now they _have_ to look at me… eyes on me, like they were before, always watching, they were in the walls and the floors and – "

"Sam," Dean cut across, "Take a deep breath, okay? You aren't doing the presentation right now, are you?"

Sam shook his head.

"So just keep your mind on what's happening now. You're on vacation, school's out today, just relax."

Sam's hands were shaking. "I can't," he stressed, "Just because it isn't happening now doesn't mean it won't… things always happen, I always see them. I can't speak in front of them, I don't know what'll come out of my mouth."

"Sam, you've been through so much shit, if you can take out an evil organisation then you can present your project, I know you can."

Sam nodded uncertainly.

They carried on walking a little before Sam spoke up again.

"I forget sometimes," he said, "I wake up every morning and for a split second I think I'm back there. Or sometimes, I think I'm being watched or listened to so I don't dare talk, even with you and Dad. Sometimes I still have staring contests but there's nothing there."

"I know," Dean soothed, "I know. But you're safe now, and if you don't feel like you are then come get me or dad. I don't even care what time."

There was a moment of quiet before Sam said, "I miss them."

"Who?"

"Little bird and the others. I hope they're okay."

"I'm sure they are; I can find out if you want."

Sam didn't seem to have listened. "She's too small, her wings can't hold her up because they plucked her feathers but her beak is _sharp_. No one will know how to look after her, not anymore."

Dean glanced down, the leash was around Sam's wrist as he tapped his fingers, counting. He was silently mouthing the numbers to himself as he went, not looking at anyone in particular. Clem was sitting by his feet, looking up at him with her head cocked to the side. She licked his fingers, catching his attention.

"Maybe we should head back," Dean suggested, "I can walk her later for you."

Sam nodded shakily and allowed Dean to take him back to the house under his arm, even though Sam was taller than him. Clem didn't complain about her walk being cut short, Sam always came first for her.

When they got back, their Dad was in the kitchen, looking like he might have known what he was doing, finally. He looked up.

"Where've you been?" he asked, "You know, it wouldn't hurt to leave a note."

"Sorry, it's just…" Dean trailed off, turning to find that Sam had made no move to take of his coat or unhook Clem's leash. John seemed to understand and stopped pressing them. Dean all but pried the leash from Sam's hand and let Clem go, but she didn't move, then he helped Sam out of his shoes and jacket and led him back to his room.

Sam sat on the edge of his bed and buried his face in his hands, he didn't make any move from there. Dean closed the window, leaving the door open, and crouched down in front of Sam.

"You still with me?" Dean asked. Sam nodded behind his fingers. "Tell me where you are."

"Home," Sam said quietly.

"State?" Dean added.

"Colorado."

"Good. And who's in the room with you?"

Sam groaned. "I'm not… that bad. I know where I am, okay?"

A little irritable, okay. "Tell me what you're feeling."

Sam glared at him through his fingers, his eyes were wet. "Frustrated, panicked, worried, paranoid, nervous, hopeless," he listed off.

"You were okay earlier this week," Dean said, "When did you start feeling bad?"

Sam shrugged and sniffed. "I dunno, just woke up this morning and I didn't feel good."

"You taken all your meds?"

Sam scowled. "Yes, Dean!" he snapped, but his face fell immediately and he began to cry, "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry…"

He let Dean pull him into a hug, crying onto his shoulder. It wasn't fair what happened to Sam, it wasn't fair that they'd done this to him; it wasn't fair that a damn history presentation that hadn't even happened yet could put Sam on the verge of a panic attack.

"I can't do this," Sam sobbed, "I'm not _right_. I don't understand why I have all this, I don't deserve this, I shouldn't be here, I should be gone, like the rest, I should have died, not them."

Dean couldn't say anything, because whatever he said wouldn't make any difference to what Sam thought in that moment, he just hugged Sam tighter, let him know he was still there. Sam's fingers were tapping a specific pattern on Dean's back, over and over, routine made Sam feel in control.

"There aren't any tiles to count," Sam choked, "I can't count them on my own."

"Shhh," Dean rocked him a little.

"I can't count them," Sam babbled, "They're gone, they burned away, all of it burned away. Why does everything burn around me?"

"Sam, you need to breathe," Dean ordered, leaning back to look at his brother's tear-streaked face. Sam began to attempt to take in carefully counted breaths.

"I think I'm dying," Sam cried, "I can't breathe."

"You're having a panic attack," Dean assured him, "You'll get through it, we've done this before, just keep breathing."

Eventually, Sam's breathing got back under control but he was shaking and white, still crying. Dean kept a hand on his back, rubbing softly, he knew how to do this, this was an every-other-day occurrence. Clem was sitting by the door, keeping watch, Dean guessed, and he patted the mattress by Sam and she bounded on over and rested her head on Sam's lap.

Sam rubbed her velvety ear between his fingers, it seemed to sooth him as he cried quietly. Sam was better than he was, but he would never be the same again, Dean had learned that much. Sam had an enormous amount on his shoulders; he suffered survivor's guilt, he suffered guilt from whatever he'd been made to do, though he'd never tell Dean. He thought he was bad, _why else would God punish me?_ He thought he was unclean, _there's something in me._ He was paranoid and constantly nervous. He was sad and frightened. He was almost constantly in pain, Dean knew.

But there were times; when Sam held his puppy for the first time, when he'd arranged his first real bedroom with such pride, when he got into the high school program at the community college, when he and Dean went driving to nowhere in particular, that was when Dean knew Sam was getting better.

"You never believe me," Dean told him, "But you are so amazing. You're the best person I know, you're so smart and kind and _good_. You're my favourite."

Sam smiled a little.

"Sammy, I'm thankful for you," Dean said.

Sam didn't seem to be able to get himself working properly so he just pressed a shaky finger to Dean's chest and held it there. _I'm thankful for you_.

Dean didn't do chick-flick moments but he'd do them for Sam.

Sam was tired, Dean could tell, no doubt the kid hadn't been sleeping well and had neglected to tell anyone. Sam lay down with Clem moulded to his side as Dean slouched in the desk chair and told him stories about what he did with the checkout girl in the stock room. Sam was too tired to even complain about Dean's vulgarity and fell asleep.

Dean tiptoed to the door, Clem watched, and Dean whispered to her, "Keep an eye on him."

Clem nudged her muzzle gently into Sam's chest. Good girl.

John was still working the kitchen, looking more in control than he had been before. "Eileen gave us some cookies," he announced, not looking to see who was there, "She said she knew I'd turn up."

He snorted a little and took a swig of beer as he stirred a pot. He finally turned to look at Dean. "How is he?"

"Tired, stressed and just not feeling good," Dean told him, grabbing a beer from the fridge.

"Maybe we should tell the others not to come," John suggested.

"Nah, they're already on their way," Dean said, "Besides, Sam would feel bad if everyone had to leave because of him."

"What's he doing now?"

"Sleeping," Dean sighed, "I don't think he's been sleeping well at night."

"He's better than he was," John pointed out.

"He can tell what's real and what's not," Dean muttered around the bottle, "Everything else is as bad as ever."

"It takes time," Dad reminded him.

"At least he's safe," Dean said. John didn't say a word, just clenched his jaw.

Ellen, Jo and Ash arrived first. Ash high fived him and went straight to John for a beer, Ellen and Jo hugged him tight and dumped a bowl of macaroni into his arms with instructions on how to heat it up. Then Bobby turned up, the pie was intact, and conversation turned to Sam.

"He's tired so I'm just letting him get some sleep," Dean explained, scratching the back of his neck. It was quiet for a moment, then Ash started talking about the Macy's parade, because he likes the snoopy float, okay? Jo nearly spat out her drink laughing at him.

They were all respectful and understanding enough to know when not to pry.

Dean set up the table, with help from Jo, as Ellen went to rescue the turkey from John. It was just like Dean remembered a real Thanksgiving being like, though his memory of his mother cooking years ago was a small one.

Sam shuffled in, most likely awoken by the chatter, his hair was sticking up at odd angles and he rubbed his eyes, yawning wide.

"Hey, sleeping beauty!" Dean called as he carried a bowl of mash potatoes to the table, "Come sit down."

Sam nodded sleepily and dropped into the nearest seat, blinking around the room like he'd just noticed the other guests had arrived. "Oh, hey," he muttered. Clem padded after him and sat herself at his feet, staring up at the table longingly.

"You're not feeding the dog at the table," John said. Sam sighed and hauled himself up and over to the cabinet to fill the dog bowl, he set it down right next to his chair.

"How're you doing, Sam?" Bobby asked, taking the seat next to him.

Sam rubbed his eye again. "I'm okay," he answered, voice sounding rough with sleep, "Same old, I guess."

"Good. That's good," Bobby said, staring at Sam as the boy straightened his cutlery, he quickly cut his eyes to Clem, "That girl is looking good. You know, Rumsfeld misses you."

Sam looked at him. "Did he say so?" he asked, then laughed a little.

"He's just being a whiney bastard," Bobby agreed, smiling, "He's not the same without you."

"You should have brought him," Sam argued.

"I know that girl isn't spayed yet," Bobby frowned at Sam, "I'm not letting you trick me into breeding them."

Sam sighed, tipping his head back over-dramatically. "Fine," he said, defeated.

"How's school going?" Ellen asked, taking a seat at the other end next to Jo.

Sam dropped his head shyly. "S'alright."

John cleared his throat, grabbing the other's attention. "Turkey's done," he announced, no one made any reaction.

"Oh… oh! It looks really great, Dad," Dean piped up, "Best turkey in town, no, in the state! The country!"

"Shut up," Bobby snorted, "It's a damn turkey."

"I hope you didn't mess it up," Sam said bluntly.

"Okaay… anyway, I want a leg," Dean added.

"Sam gets first pick," John reminded him, "It's his first real Thanksgiving."

Sam stuck his tongue out at Dean. "What, are you seven?" Dean whined.

"Shut up and pick a piece," John snapped.

"Leg," Sam requested, holding out his plate.

"Me too," Dean butted in. John placed a leg on Sam's plate then raised an eyebrow at Dean.

"Guests first," he said, turning to Jo, "What do you want."

Jo smirked at Dean. "Leg, please."

"That's not fair, she's only doing that to spite me."

"Good," Bobby chuckled.

Dean ended up with no Turkey leg, but he eyed Sam's untouched piece with envy. Sam ignored it and shovelled down mashed potatoes. Meanwhile, Jo munched on her Turkey leg like it was the best thing she'd ever eaten, staring at Dean the entire time.

Sam finished all of his food, minus the leg, and sat back.

"You gonna eat that?" Dean asked hopefully. A sly grin spread across Sam's face.

"The leg?" he clarified, "Oh, it's not for me."

Then he tossed it down to Clem. Dean scowled at him.

"I don't believe it," he declared dramatically, "My own brother!"

"Well, maybe you can have my slice of pie," Sam suggested.

"I'd better get it," Dean said seriously, "After I spent all day making this place look like Thanksgiving threw up in here."

"Speaking of," Ellen interrupted, "What are we thankful for?"

"Ugh, Mom," Jo groaned, "Really?"

"I mean it," Ellen told her, no nonsense, "What are you thankful for, Joanna Beth?"

"You," Jo sighed, "I guess."

"Right back at you," Ellen smiled.

"I'm thankful for Casey the checkout girl," Dean said, eyebrows waggling.

"Eileen," John added, "She saved the turkey."

"Jim Beam," Bobby said. Ash nodded his approval.

"Clem," Sam finished quietly and he patted her back. Dean had been watching his brother all night. Rest seemed to have done him some good, released some of the tension he had, but he still looked a little uncomfortable, more so as the night went on. He wasn't looking at anyone around the table anymore, he was just staring at Clem who was resting her muzzle on his lap.

Dean leaned over close. "You don't have to hang around if you don't want to," he whispered.

Sam startled a little and blinked at him. "No, I, uh, I'm fine," he said, "Really."

"I'm just saying, it's okay if you need a bit of time on your own. No one will mind."

Eventually, Sam nodded and he slipped quietly out and back to his room with Clem close on his heels. Everyone noticed but no one reacted, they just carried on with their conversation. Dean gave Sam some time to himself, his brother couldn't stand being alone, yet he sought it often. Dean had come to understand that being alone was very different to being lonely; Sam had spent two years of his life surrounded by people whose faces he couldn't see, people who didn't think he was human.

While everyone was clearing up, Dean headed down the hall to Sam's room, knocking on the door to let him know he was coming. He didn't get an answer but he pushed the door open anyway. Anyone else might have believed the room was empty but Dean knew his brother.

Clem's tail was sticking out from under the bed and Dean rounded to the other side, lying down on the floor so he was face to face with Sam who was stretched out under the bed with the dog's muzzle under his hand.

"Hey," Dean said casually, "An under the bed kind of night, huh?"

"I just need it to be quiet," Sam whispered, "It's too loud."

"What's loud?" Dean asked, though he knew the answer, it was just good to get Sam to get everything out of his head.

"I can hear everyone," Sam said softly, "They're happy, and they're worried. About me."

"You're normally good at ignoring everyone's… psychic noise stuff," Dean said, it was the best way to describe Sam's empathetic ability.

"It's hard right now," Sam huffed, "I can't stop thinking about the presentation so I forget to block everything else out and it's just too loud when everyone's talking and shouting from their insides too."

"You're really freaked out about this history thing, huh?"

Sam nodded.

"Why don't you practise on me?" Dean suggested, "Tell me all about whatever happened that one time. Then maybe you can show everyone else."

Sam's nose twitched a little as he considered it. Eventually, he rolled out from under the bed, Dean followed him up onto two feet.

"You need to…" Sam muttered, glancing around a bit before he pushed Dean to sit down on the edge of the bed, then he bustled around his desk, "It's not finished yet… it needs… you know?"

"Just present it, Sammy," Dean ordered in his best John voice. Sam stopped, cards in hand, and took a few deep breaths with Dean's coaching.

"Don't laugh," Sam warned.

"Why would I laugh?"

"If I mess it up," Sam said shyly.

Dean rolled his eyes. "You won't mess it up, kid, and even if you made a mistake I won't laugh. You don't need to be perfect."

Sam flinched a little at that last bit, he was still getting used to the idea after having _perfection_ drilled into him for two years. No doubt his bedroom was immaculate for this reason. Doing things wrong, even just the slightest bit, made Sam stressed.

"You ready?" Dean asked. Sam nodded hesitantly and began.

Sam made an extremely detailed and well thought out presentation about the Cold War, a few things went over Dean's head a bit (he thought it might be the same for Sam's history teacher because Sam was just that smart) but by the end he managed to keep in his time frame and make Dean feel like he could write his own essay on the subject.

Sam finished and stared at him nervously.

"It was really good, Sammy," Dean told him with a grin.

Sam shook his head. "You're only saying that because – "

"Because it was," Dean cut across, "I mean it. Give yourself a little more credit, huh?"

Sam ducked his head a little, smiling.

"Maybe we could show it to everyone else?" Dean suggested. Sam looked a little unsure but he eventually agreed.

"Great," Dean beamed, "Pie, ice cream and the Cold War. Can't think of a better way to spend Thanksgiving."

It was freezing in the yard, though Dean said it set the atmosphere for the presentation. _The_ Cold _War, get it?_ He'd made a convincing argument. They set the chairs outside like a movie theatre and took dessert with them, listening to Sam make his presentation. He got nervous with more people around, twitching and stuttering, but by the end he was flying through it. Everyone clapped at the end and Clem barked her appreciation.

It was a strange gathering of people who'd seen the worst of the world, people had lost something: loved ones, sanity, freedom. But there they were; laughing and eating and living together.

It was exactly a Thanksgiving, or any other kind of holiday, like he'd seen in the movies, but it was theirs.

* * *

I hope I managed to stay true to the characters, it feels like a long time since I wrote in this 'verse. I had to re-do a few parts (which is why this is posted so late) because Sam didn't sound much like Sam I Am!Sam.

Winchesters living an apple-pie life, what do you think? Are you interested in more Sam I Am one-shots set post- Sam I Am/pre-sequel?

Thanks for reading!


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